


Bury Deep and Detonate

by bold_seer



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Antagonism, Character Study, Existential Crisis, M/M, Post-Doctor Strange (2016), Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-06-09 18:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15273447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bold_seer/pseuds/bold_seer
Summary: A man who had decided his limits in advance could be killed - or hurt - in a number of ways.





	Bury Deep and Detonate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



0.

They were sparring in the courtyard, free moves drawing on familiarity. But they weren’t sparring; they were fighting. Strange thought quickly on his feet. Was inventive and unpredictable, at times. But Mordo was fierce and ruthless. And ultimately, Strange was weak.

Avoiding undue force, deadly force was naïve. A man who had decided his limits in advance could be killed - or hurt - in a number of ways.

With a series of automatic movements, Mordo easily overpowered Strange. Held him in not quite a chokehold, but he felt the life draining – no, not his life. The magic was flowing out of Strange, as it had of Pangborn. It was dragging out his spirit, too, leaving behind an empty shell. Mordo couldn’t have let go, had he wanted to, body frozen in place.

They both fell backwards.

He woke up, unsettled, at dawn. But he would go through with it.

...

1.

They were crossing the courtyard, Strange and an older man. Strange stopped in his tracks. It was well into autumn. At any other time Mordo might have smiled to see his mentee. His friend.

“Karl. I didn’t –” Strange cleared his throat. “We didn’t think you’d return.” He sounded lost and uncertain, like a dog left out in the rain. Mordo thought of the man he’d found in the street, taking a beating, fighting back, who had nothing left but hadn’t given up, grasping at any possibility.

Strange seemed not to know if he should wait for an explanation, but Mordo had none for him.

Eventually, they went inside.

...

2.

They ate together. Strange carefully, carefully, so as not to spill his soup. Mordo tried to savour the taste of home (a kind of home), but kept glancing at Strange throughout the meal. Their eyes met.

He looked down at his plate, half empty. Full of troubling thoughts.

...

3.

They were sparring, just sparring in the courtyard, finding their familiar routine again. Flexible and responsive, Strange took to his surroundings. But still he was a man who fought, not a fighter.

Mordo laid down his weapon, enough for now. Strange approached him. His hair was damp, and there was a tiny drop of blood in the corner of his mouth, a small wound from some accidental hit. Mordo didn’t consider running a hand through his hair, placing a finger on his lips. He had trained hard to master every impulse.

“Bit rusty,” said Strange lightly. Self-deprecating, teasing. He leapt away. Suddenly, all Mordo could think of was Strange, flying somewhere, out of reach. The pain and the betrayal.

What memory was that, what time?

...

4.

They happened upon each other in the library, under Wong’s watchful eye. Shoulders bumping, as Mordo stepped into the light, while Strange was leaving. He gave Mordo an apologetic half-smile, see you around.

Mordo turned, to catch Wong’s gaze following Strange’s steps, almost protectively, a silent shadow. A strange development, this kind of friendship. He’d got along better with Strange than Wong had, been more tolerant of his attitude, his digressions. But after Hong Kong, after Mordo had left, their dynamic had changed. Had transformed into some unshakable bond.

Wong suspected something, but even if he did, he was a bit player. Wong didn’t matter. What use was a man who observed everything and did nothing, Mordo thought darkly. And so they were, three wise (foolish) sorcerers. One who said nothing. One who plunged in, at the deep end, before reading the last page. Who kept playing with fire, asking for trouble. It would come, always did.

But what was it that Mordo had missed, what hadn’t he heard?

...

5.

They were fighting, but they weren’t fighting; they were sparring in the courtyard. At the flickers of light from Strange’s palms, Mordo sent a blast of energy in his direction. It shot out with such a violent intensity that he was taken aback by the abruptness, the force. Out of control. And potent enough to demolish a building. Or an experienced fighter.

But Strange blocked it with a shield, sparks flying in every direction, like fireworks or shooting stars. He was breathing heavily, eyes wide open. Surprised, perhaps, at his own reflexes. At whatever strength he had torn, so suddenly, out of his body.

A current of emotions, swirling on his face. There was no fear. Only hunger. For more, always. Further, deeper. As if here, Strange had _no_ limits, or he was set on ignoring them.

To be expected of a man who let his mind roam. Leaving his body behind in his bed, for hours on end.

...

6.

There was a knock, late at night, when Mordo was about to sleep. He hesitated. In a place where everyone lived close together, celibacy was practical. But they had taken no vows. Yet they had vowed to serve something greater - or so he’d thought. Relationships were neither explicitly forbidden nor merely discouraged. Between man and woman, certainly, he saw the problem there. Between men, a greater taboo.

It happened.

...

7.

They were pressed against each other, trying to settle on the best position. For themselves, for each other. “Nice exercise,” Strange muttered. He was tempting fate, pushing, challenging everything. The way he always did.

Mordo let him, but not for long. He spun Strange around, his head hitting the wall with a thump. Mordo eyed his throat, exposed. For a half a moment, he thought Strange would crack another joke. About licking. Or biting, drawing blood. But something in him had changed. He only blinked, a little owlishly, his lips parted.

The touch was so light it was barely a kiss. Too soft, too tender.

It couldn’t last.

...

8.

They were fighting, clashing in the courtyard. Fire and fire. But they weren’t in the courtyard; it was the Mirror Dimension.

“You told me to fight,” Strange shouted, ducking, as the fiery ropes reached for him. “Remember? Like my life depended on it.”

“This isn’t a game.” The cords were twisting around Strange, his wrists, but something was holding Mordo back. “I’m stronger,” he continued. To unsettle Strange. To assure himself. This was the way. “I could destroy you.”

“You could,” Strange said. It wasn’t betrayal that shone in his eyes. Maybe sadness. And some hope, brave and stupid. “Every imaginable pain has already been inflicted on my body.”

Mordo glanced at the immobilised hands. The tremor, barely there. But Strange, Strange was shaking his head. Mordo took a wary step towards him. “What do you mean?”

“Dormammu, trapped in a loop.” That was the old Strange, convinced of his own cleverness. There was a self-satisfied look on his face. He was like _her_. His soul had been corrupted by darkness. And yet. Mordo had touched him.

“Time is not a plaything,” he bit out. “You foolish, reckless man. You could’ve doomed us all.”

Strange refused to look ashamed. “I was the toy. Time’s a playground. But Dormammu had no understanding of time, so more of a playpen.” The morbid amusement in his tone hid some of the hurt. “Disturbing, being trapped without entertainment. Other than killing me, a few thousand times.”

More disturbing for Strange. He remembered the warning, reliving a moment with no escape. Maybe Strange had lost his mind. What kind of a doctor was so cavalier with his own life? What kind of a man was so arrogant? To think he could play with powers that ancient. And succeed.

When Strange spoke again, there was hardly a trace of smugness. “I couldn’t let Wong die,” he said softly. “Let the world be destroyed, when I had the means to undo it.”

Because it was the right thing to do. _Right._ Mordo didn’t know what was right anymore. Had he ever?

“Reversing time.” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue: a poisoned apple. Or the rotten apple that spoiled the barrel. Was that Strange? Before he’d arrived, life had been simpler in Kamar-Taj. _Before you brought him here_ , said the little voice in the back of his head. _You could’ve let him starve in the street. You could’ve stayed away._ He could’ve.

Who ever stayed away. Everyone wanted a taste of the forbidden fruit. The fruit of knowledge. It had begun much earlier, with Kaecilius. Earlier yet, hundreds of years ago, the path that led them here. Playing with time, as if it were a cheap cassette. Unwinding history. Unwriting it. Mordo had tried to do that, like every other wreck. Hide his true nature. Forget his past, the things he’d done. Forge himself anew.

“You haven’t tried it on your hands.” A cruel jab, but Mordo knew where to stick his blade. Precise and determined, a surgeon’s cut. No one had told Strange that every fighter had scars. Not all of them were from battles.

“I have much to learn,” Strange conceded. He looked Mordo straight in the eye, trying to reach some part that wasn’t there. “Things you still could teach me.”

“Trust your teacher?” He laughed at the familiar phrase, a joyless sound. “And where did that take us? You exposing our mentor. Me planning your demise.”

“When her spirit left her body, that last time, she told me we’d need to work together. We could learn from her mistakes. I’ve tried to –” He looked to the ground. There it was, finally. _Regret._ “Learn from mine.”

With a shudder, some of the rage left Mordo’s body. He let go of his hold on Strange, but felt no lighter. Only spent. Empty. Lacking in purpose. Here was Strange, urging him not to leave. Telling him there was another way. Mordo had no room for kindness. He’d respected his superiors. Had worked on his patience, for his pupils. But kindness, kindness was weakness.

Strange raised his hands, a sign not of spellwork, but surrender. Fight, Mordo thought. Was it because he couldn’t, or because he wouldn’t? He should follow the plan. He should wring the magic out of Strange. Take his Sling Ring, the power he wasn’t worthy of. His hands were burning.

“Mordo, listen.” Pleading and trickery, these were the tactics Strange had used with Dormammu. The spell hit Strange, his defences. Boomeranged back. It struck Mordo like a whip. He fell to his knees.

Glowing and powerful, Strange stood before him. Not threatening, understanding. Himself. “You saved me. I had nothing when you found me. We can’t -” He didn’t know how to go on. “We couldn’t always cure a patient. I tended to avoid those cases. But we can reduce the pain. Minimise the damage.”

“I don’t know if I can,” Mordo admitted in near defeat. He had tried to conquer his demons before. If he could atone for his past deeds, atone for his new ones. Learn to reconcile, once more, what was natural and unnatural in this world. In any other.

Strange didn’t know about Pangborn. Or perhaps he did, suspected. Wong might, and then Strange might. Either way, he hadn’t written off Mordo. A good doctor, he thought. A good man. Not without his flaws, not unwilling to bend. Break the rules. Could there be such a thing? Could it be goodness and not a corrupt, self-serving nature? _You lack a spine._ What Mordo had taken for cowardice, for weakness, could that be a strength?

“I’d help you. Find your way.” There was a rough quality to his voice, but Strange had a calm manner, reminding Mordo of their teacher. But compared to her ageless mystery, Wong’s unreadable face, Mordo’s own layers - draped fabric, under which he’d lost himself - his emotions were naked. Too obvious, too easy to read. He could detect no deceit. Strange spoke in earnest. Was willing to risk his own well-being, with nothing to gain. It made no sense.

But he trusted his instincts. Trusted the man, the pupil turned master. He grabbed his arms and got up.


End file.
